


in the ruins I find a stranger (he bears my name)

by MarigoldFlowers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Lucid Dreaming, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Set in Watchpoint Gibraltar, ambiguous timeline, in which I put Genji through lots of pain and suffering, there is not a single drop of happiness in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldFlowers/pseuds/MarigoldFlowers
Summary: Genji would always and forever remain on that cliff, body tangled in arrows, hands wrapped around himself, surrounded by warm air but freezing down to his bones.(If only he could forget the burn of dragon fire on his skin.)- In which Genji dreams of his brother for the first time since their battle and has to cope with the painful memories alone.
Relationships: Genji Shimada & Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	in the ruins I find a stranger (he bears my name)

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to angsty music and thought it would be a great time to make Genji suffer. Takes place pre-fall Overwatch. Enjoy!

_ “You’ll be okay,” Hanzo promised. His hand grasped Genji’s, strong and reassuring. He spoke softly, quietly, and whispered his words as if he was afraid of being punished for them. _

_ “I’m here.”  _

_ His voice was tame and so devoid of the same grief that had consumed Genji. Like an anchor tying a reckless ship to shore, there he was, strong in the wake of death, his posture tall and unwavering; his anger hidden away beneath the steady veneer of resilience.  _

_ Their mother was dead and buried in the ground. Their father raged in stony silence and their clan watched on with predatory eyes. They were rarely kind to those in mourning, but Genji knew that he would be safe so long as he stood by his brother’s side.  _

_ Hanzo tore his eyes away from the grave. Genji tried to do the same. But he wavered at his mother’s name, carefully etched into the stone tablet, a sign of eternity for the dead. She was gone, and only they were left.  _

_   
_ _ “Genji,” Hanzo said. “I’ll always protect you. I promise that, you hear me?”  _

_ Genji nodded, because he knew that Hanzo would turn twelve in March and officially begin his duties as heir. He would have the power to shield them both from the vultures. Genji tugged on Hanzo’s Yukata, nestling himself in its warmth and comfort. It smelled like crushed bark and fresh bamboo.  _ _   
  
_

_ Hanzo reached over to Genji and rested his palm on Genji’s shoulder. “Little brother,” He began. “I’m so proud of you.”  _

_   
_ _ His fingers moved slowly, gently, as if petting a cat. His eyes were placid and kind, warm without even a hint of aggression. Deft, as any trained and capable assassin would be.  _

_   
_ _ (Genji had spent a lifetime looking up into those eyes.) _

_ Genji shifted hesitantly. “Brother, what’re you doing?”  _

_ (A lifetime walking in Hanzo’s wake. A lifetime listening to his jokes and harmless taunts. A lifetime as his brother and his friend.) _

_ Hanzo wrapped his fingers around Genji’s neck, and squeezed.  _

_ The illusion of their mother’s grave fell away, and suddenly Hanzo was older, taller, his eyes darker and expression less forgiving. Genji dangled in midair, mere inches away from the edge of the Hanamura cliffs. He was standing on sacred land, his delirious brain remembered. His body flooded with pain as sharp and cruel as a million silver daggers, each one bleeding into across his skin the longer Hanzo held on. Genji was a supernova imploding into itself, fickle and foolish and as tame as the impossible.  _

_ “Brother,” Genji’s eight-year-old self gasped. “Stop it. You’re hurting me.” Hanzo had no answer for his desperate pleas. Genji struggled against his iron fists, clawing at his skin with all the might his childish strength could bear, eyes wide and lungs burning. His vision blurred white at the edges. He was at mercy to the push and pull of pain, to the well of emotions bubbling up in his chest and threatening to spill over.  _

_ “You’re--h- hurting me, Hanzo- o. You’re hurting m-me.” His throat was hoarse with pain.  _

_ (lucid as he was, he did not stop to think that even in his dreams, Hanzo was crying too.)  _

_ - _

Genji startled awake with a gasp. His breath rattled in his throat as he lunged towards the bathroom. Gibraltar’s lights flickered around him like a million emergency warnings on repeat, the glare of them burning into his skull. Cold sweat broke over his skin, cloying and pallid, eating up his sanity as he dove for the sink. Blood pounded in his ears.  _ Don’t think don’t think don’t think--  _

_ (it was on a warm, spring night--) _

Genji looked up. A stranger peered back at him in the mirror, disheveled and wild and burning with rabid ferocity. But that wasn’t quite right. Those weren’t his eyes-- murderous red and gleaming-- wasn’t his hair-- torn and burnt-- wasn’t his skin-- damaged and broken. That was the body of a machine. Genji’s hands shook violently, fingers limp with panic.  _ Don’t think don’t think don’t think--  _ There wasn’t enough space in the room for him to _ breathe, _ but he was frozen. Entranced. Held prisoner by the wretched man in the mirror. Genji Shimada died that night, and _ he _ was born. 

  
_ (--and the cherry blossoms were falling.)  _

How terrifying his scars looked in the dark. How jagged the skin, like torn cloth, marred the entirety of his face. How  _ wrong  _ the metal platelets looked cutting into his flesh. 

_ (Someone called out his name.)  _

His mind drifted to the memory of Hanzo’s voice, reassuring and calm, and so very, very, familiar. 

_ I’ll always protect you.  _

_ I’ll always be here. _

_   
_ And then, like the gentlest whisper of wind at his ear:  _ I promise.  _ _   
  
_

The mirror shattered as his fist collided with it. All around him, the sounds of a thousand glass shards ricocheted around the space. It was deafening, maddening, but all he could hear was Hanzo’s treacherous words repeating on an endless loop-- the ugly tone of a man who’d gutted and left him for dead forever embedded in his mind. How naive he was to think that he would ever escape from it. 

Genji scraped at his neck as if he could feel Hanzo’s hands closing in around it, the ash and the coppery smell of blood as real as it had been on the night he’d fought fate and lost. He wanted to tear the sensation of it off his body, wanted to scream and cry and shut his conscious away. 

He would always and forever remain on that cliff, body tangled in arrows, hands wrapped around himself, surrounded by warm air but freezing down to his bones. 

_ (If only he could forget the burn of dragon fire on his skin.)  _

“You promised,” Genji rasped weakly, his fist dripping blood onto the floor. He sunk to his knees. He circled his arms around himself as if he were a child, clutching to his cold prosthetic legs if only for the brief delusion of comfort. It was just him in that room. Him, the shattered mirror, and the agony of defeat. 

“You promised,” Came the broken whimper, because he was dead and alone and no one would ever hear his voice. 

  
  



End file.
